Lords of the gravel: The fellowship of the grondpad

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Joined
Jan 8, 2016
Messages
122
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0
Location
BOKSBURRE
Bike
BMW R1200GS Adventure
So like a year ago, this woeste white biker scum tjunes his mates, "china's I'm gonna trade my moerse fast R1 Yamaha in for a tractor." They all looked at me as if I was sober or something and just talking kak to make some noise. One month later I pull into the yard with a red BMW GSA and those okes looks at me as if I'm an alien. It took many brandies and cola's, a few thorough examinations and lots of bragging and lies to convince those speed bike and chopper riders that I'm still a biker and did not become gay or a BMW yuppie. Now at this time the only other guy I knew who rode a GS was Bossie, a wild biker there from Ellisras, who slept with anything that had a pulse, except for dangerous dogs that bite back. This guy rides like a thousand kays a week, and his ass still operated normal, so I thought there must be something to this BMW thing. One month later the government decided to reposes that red BMW R1200 GSA by breaking in to my yard and simply pushing the bike to the nearest bakkie waiting outside, but being a rebel and a dirty hairy farting biker, I tjuned those okes from the insurance, and whalla…. I got me a silver BMW. Now with this silver BM, I got some of these tires with those heavy grooves that would disperse water at 400kays an hour, but the bike only reached like a top speed of 200, so they weren't too effective. Bossie then tjuned me that those tires are actually for riding on gravel, and this time it took him lots of brandy and a few Jägermeister's to convince me that bikers actually chose sometimes to travel via the "Groot Trek" routes by choice and all.

Well the best thing about those BMW's, was that they came out with three cool boxes, yep I'm not lying here to you blokes, one on top, and two on the sides. I had vast illusions of me opening a 24hour bar of my own at the next bike rally, with all the alcohol one could transport in those bikes. Then there was that moerse beeg tank, you could start drunk, drive till you get sober, and get drunk all over again, before you had to put some juice into that big tank. Anyway…I'm getting of the story line here, so let's continue. So Bossie tjuned me that we must go and travel through the country using gravel roads and all that, and I was like…"why, I pay for bloody tar roads, and I like making those toll companies the moer in by skipping those red and white booms, why on earth would I want to ride on gravel?" After many more brandies, he explained about nature, the birds and the bees( my parents ferked that one up) and going on an adventure, like some of those harde baard toppies you see sitting in the back of the bar with those steely far away gazes, looking at us bikers with leathers as if we knew nothing. It took him a long time to convince me, so I decided okay, let's try it December when we have time. On the 13th of December, the bloody dark agents of the government came for a second visit, and ferken stole my second GSA.

Now by that time, I had been tjuning all the other bikers, that they were a lot of pissies, and that only us really woeste bikers ride gravel…real manne. This had obviously pissed most of them off, which they showed by passing me going at 300 kays and then giving me the finger, but only until we stopped, and I pulled like a dozen cold ones from one of the coolers, then we were all buds again. Now with my second BMW stolen, and with all of those woeste bikers expecting me to ride from South Africa to Alaska, I had to quickly make a plan. Luckily the insurance, who screwed me the first time, only screwed me with another R40 000 or so of my drinking money, but I got another silver BMW R1200 GSA that looked almost identically like the first one, so no one was the wiser. The only problem was, it was now January, and so I had to lie through my teeth and tjune the other bikers that I could not go to Alaska due to that countries conservative drinking laws, yep only one litre of brandy and a case of beer per day per person, so my passport got black listed, and I could not go. Bossie in the mean time, had hooked up with an old buddy of mine, who used to be a decent biker and Katana rider, but had somehow been converted over the 10 or so years I last saw him to KTM, brand of bike I did not even know existed. Every time we tjune him kak about that Freestate coloured bike of his, Gom Gat Gerrit would say something along the lines of…"15 times Dakar winner." What this Dakar thingy was, I did not know, and I tried googeling that shit, but got stuck on the internet prawn sites that jumped up, so I never found out.

Gom Gat Gerrit, or GGG as the other blokes called him, then introduced me to the rest of their group, and they all started by immediately lying and telling big tales about how they ride gravel, sand, mud, and bees kak as if there was no tomorrow. They actually almost convinced me that us normal hard drinking, swearing, and unlawful biker trash, were missing out on the real biker adventure. It was then decided, we will go on a trip, travelling all around Lesotho, doing about 300 plus kays of gravel a day, which left me with at least ten hours of drinking time at the end of the day…yes I know it wasn't much, but I had take it as it is. This is now where we come to the fellowship, because just like little old Frodo, we were ten adventure bikers (normal bikers wear leather, vloek woes, and only used tar roads) 3x 990 KTM's, 3 x 1190 KTM's, one Yamaha 650, and 3 x BMW (One 1100 GS Varkie, a normal GS and my moerse groot  Pantzerkampwagen a GSA loaded with all paniers and my blow up dolly Francesca). The plan was to travel anti-clock wise all around Lesotho, drink, braai, and keep Bossie of the locals, then go home. There was a lot of kak praat before the start date, and I can go on for hours about how these adventure bikers tried scaring us real bikers with fotees of moerse rotse and other un-Christian like pictars of bikes lying in mud pools and so on, but I'm not going to go there.
 
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